At First Sight
by trufflemores
Summary: In which pocket!Blaine's luck is about to change when a kind stranger comes across him. Inspired by rocketssurgery's adorable artwork. Kurt/Blaine.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer**: I do not own Glee or any of its characters; Ryan Murphy and Co. hold that honor. I'm simply writing this for fun, not profit.

**Pocket!Blaine. Inspired by rocketssurgery's gorgeous artwork and written with her permission; also prompted by kurtsieforblaine.**

When you're four inches tall, everything becomes a little more challenging. When you're four inches tall _in a big city, _even the simplest tasks can require a herculean amount of will power and creativity to overcome.

Blaine tries not to let the constant threat of being trampled by oblivious tourists or eaten by a stray cat keep him down, but it's hard on the nights when the nearest bakery is too busy to leave out a slice of bread and cheese to nibble on and he has to walk four blocks to find an equally benevolent deli owner. It's hard whenever he slouches back to _his _corner after a long day and finds his nest of newspapers swept away again. It's hard whenever he lets the reality of his situation sink in, whenever he thinks about the family that wouldn't want him (that doesn't even _know_) or the strangers that won't even look at him as he hugs a storefront during rush hour and waits for the stampede to abate.

But the world is equally kind. For every stranger that accidentally kicks him, another one crouches down and offers to give him a lift somewhere. For every missed meal, a thimble-full of coffee appears inexplicably on the counter with his name on it. For every night that he spends alone, another wanderer comes along and offers to keep him company for a while.

He's been little so long that he's almost forgotten what it's like to go home every night, what it's like to order a cup of coffee instead of hoping that one will appear, what it's like to shower properly and sink down onto the downy surface of a bed afterward. He misses being hugged and talked to instead of at. He misses making plans and executing them comfortably, easily, effortlessly. He misses being Blaine, a person instead of an object.

But he can't change the fact that he's little. He can barely change the fact that he's growing _smaller._

He's always been sensitive to others' emotions, driven to help people whenever he can and aching alongside them when he can't. He didn't realize until it was too late that his empathy could be used against him, the crushing need to curl his own hurt and pain and exhaustion inside slowly stripping him from the reality that he'd known and replacing it with the humble life that he now led.

He'd come to New York to escape Ohio, knowing how little empaths were thought of there. The bullies that had flung insults at him for years had only succeeded in making him more determined to leave, to run before they could hurt him any more, to find a safe haven where he could make a niche for himself and be happy.

But then he'd starting growing smaller and smaller as stress deprived meals of their flavor and fatigue weighed him down. The changes hadn't been startling at first, but between one month and the next they were stark. He lost weight. He shrank. Within the year, he was just a hair over six inches, and he'd been growing smaller ever since.

He's been pocket-sized for almost a year now. Try though he might, it doesn't seem to be changing any time soon, and though he's been dreading the first snow since he first realized that he was too small to set up a permanent residence anywhere and too large to be missed by other people if he dared to board in their apartments, he's also tried to keep positive about his future. With no one to notice him, there's no one to taunt him or hurt him or make him feel pathetic. There's nothing holding him back from growing again.

He just needs to stay positive, that's all.

Brushing the remaining crumbs from a sugar cookie off his palms, he's feeling benevolent and surprisingly well until he has to scramble away from the table before a growling customer can squash him underhand. He doesn't know _why _people seem to take a natural disliking to him, but he tries to avoid confrontation if he can (he still remembers the time a drunk man tried to pilfer him off to a confused tourist, shaking him far too much for Blaine's liking as he did so). Scurrying out of the shop before he bothers anyone else, he sticks close to the wall as he walks, taking in the sights and sounds and smells of New York with a slight smile.

He loves the city life. He just wishes that he didn't have to experience it from four inches off the ground. He imagines the view would be even better if he could see above strangers' shoes.

Finding the flow of traffic and sticking with it, he almost stumbles over a crack in the sidewalk, righting himself before he can be trampled underfoot. The sea of humanity is unrelenting, and he feels overwhelmed and tired and craving _home _before he spots a stoplight pole nearby and scurries toward it. Settling down against the cool metal with a sigh, he keeps his back pressed to the pole and listens to the familiar murmured conversation of hundreds of people passing overhead, departing from and coalescing on the platforms.

Their commute is neither effortless nor entirely pleasant, but it is simple, a linear trajectory mapped by desire. Every day, they wage a war between efficiency and etiquette to reach their destinations. In New York, there are far fewer rules to restrain pedestrians from full-blown chaos in their daily commutes, making Blaine's humble walks far more dangerous than they would be in, say, Ohio.

But he's safer here because no one notices him. He's safer here because no one _cares._ In Ohio, they might follow through on sneered promises to get rid of him permanently. In New York, he holds his fate in his own hands.

Clenching his hands in his lap and waiting for the tide to abate, he closes his eyes and listens to the cacophony of sounds, cheek pressed to the cool metal.

He dreams of summer, of warm grass and hammocks and dandelions, of sunscreen and classic novels and pop music. He dreams of pool parties with the Warblers and the slow, stretched afternoons when time seems to stand still for a few hours, window propped open and house alone but not empty. He dreams of grass underneath his bare toes, wind in his hair, sunglasses tilted on his nose.

He dreams of warm things until the cold creeps back in, and then he shivers himself awake as a biting wind whips across him. People are moving even more briskly around him, jockeying for position as they mutter angrily to each other, and he's so cold in his short sleeves and capris, but he doesn't dare venture out into the crowd. He can't risk a broken leg or a crushed ribcage for the quiet warmth of a coffee shop. So he huddles by the street pole and waits for hours, it seems, as the light dims and the cold sets in more deeply.

The temperature plummets after sunset, and he shivers as he curls in on himself, willing his body to stay warm. Once the crowds fade away, then he can huddle against a storefront where the heating inside might keep him a little warmer. Or he can hunt down an abandoned hat or glove and curl up inside it for a few hours to weather the worst of the cold spell. Whatever the case may be, he only needs to last a little longer, a few more hours, another minute, a couple seconds.

A pair of knees crack nearby and he curls up tighter, willing himself to stay unnoticed. To his dismay, a gloved hand prods at his back and he flinches, not knowing what to make of the stranger. He doesn't want to be taken away from the tiny warm spot that he's created with his own body heat against the cool concrete; there's nowhere that he _can _go overnight without risking surly owners and other unwelcome things. Better to wait it out and hope for the best by morning, he thinks, projecting as much _please leave me alone _as he can in the curved arch of his back.

He's cold and tired and he wants to go _home_. But home doesn't exist anymore – not the way that it did, at least – and maybe by morning he won't even have to worry about finding a warm coffee shop to curl up outside.

Trying to put the thoughts aside – he can't afford to get any _smaller _– he can hear the stranger's breathing above the clatter of footsteps around them. The stranger doesn't move at first, seemingly entranced. Blaine is familiar with the initial shock that always comes whenever tourists spot him; most have never seen a true empath before, at least not in their tinier forms. He always seems to captivate at least one flighty imagination for a moment before being glossed over as simply another anomaly of the big city. It doesn't bother him anymore, being poked and prodded by the occasional curious passerby. He's always able to scurry away if he needs to.

But the stranger's thumb is warm and surprisingly gentle as it curves around his back. He shivers a little as the heat from the stranger's glove seeps into him, resisting the urge to unfold from his ball and cling to it. He doesn't dare move, hardly dares to breathe as the stranger's hands curl around him, cupping him in the center of his palms.

It's warm, so warm, and Blaine's so relieved that he makes a noise that might be a whimper as he stays as still as he can, trying not to disturb the tentative peace between them. He hears the stranger's knees crack a second time as he straightens, cold breath misting in front of him as he walks.

He doesn't know where they're going or how far the stranger will end up displacing him from his usual haunts, but suddenly it doesn't seem to matter. He can learn to navigate a new place if he needs to. He'll find other sympathetic shop owners to let him spend a few hours warming up behind the counter where he isn't at risk of being trampled; he'll persuade delis to offer him bits and pieces from sandwiches to survive; and he'll find an appropriate corner where he can fold himself into a glove and stave off the cold at night once he's settled in. He knows how to survive; he isn't afraid.

Shivering compulsively in his hands, Blaine stills when he feels one of the stranger's thumbs press against his back, shielding him from the wind. He tries to express the wave of gratitude that courses through him eloquently, but all that comes out is a muffled squeak of surprise, cheeks coloring with a mixture of cold and embarrassment as he resolves to keep his mouth firmly shut.

The stranger will drop him off soon enough.

Blaine loses track of time for a while in the comforting cocoon of the stranger's hands, shuffled so that he's cupped against the stranger's coat after he's almost jostled out of them. His stomach twists at the thought – the five foot drop would be fatal – and he clings to the surprisingly soft fabric of the stranger's coat as his heart thuds in his chest, all too aware of how vulnerable he is.

The stranger's thumb rubs against his back apologetically as they wait for the traffic light to change, stilling as he resumes his easy walk. It takes them a full twenty minutes before the stranger tugs the door to an apartment complex open, letting it fall shut behind him as he climbs stairs. Blaine clings to his coat tightly, not daring to look around or down or anywhere that isn't his own hands because this was a mistake it has to be a mistake he's not supposed to come _home _with anyone –

And then the door is open and his fear vanishes as the stranger's shoulders relax as he steps inside and the warmth surrounds them. Blaine melts against the stranger's coat as he steps inside because every pulse of his heart is beating _home home home._

He tenses when the stranger gently pries him from his coat and sets him down on the cool countertop of an island, gazing back up at him expectantly and almost losing his footing because _oh my god._

Blue, blue eyes and a gorgeous head of hair and a smooth, exquisite jawline and an insanely handsome smile, tentative though it may be.

Blaine has to swallow and as soon as he realizes that he's gaping he clamps his jaw shut, flustered at his own behavior – it's not like he hasn't seen beautiful people before, but _oh my god _– and not knowing what to do. He should thank him and leave – right now – before he can possibly do anything else embarrassing. Like ask to touch his hair, which looks so _soft _and whisked off to one side perfectly and –

"Hi," he blurts out, needing to say something as his cheeks turn red and the sudden and exquisite desire to hide remains impossible to execute from the smooth countertop. "Hi. Um. My name's Blaine."

"Kurt," the stranger replies, amused, and, oh. Oh. That's sort of perfect, Blaine thinks, _Kurt, _and it takes everything in him not to just sing it, _Kurt Kurt Kurt Kurt_. Thankfully the stranger – _Kurt, Kurt, _his name is _Kurt _– speaks before he can say anything exceptionally stupid. "I've never actually done . . . this before."

Blaine nods and wrings his hands for a moment before sitting down, dizzy with the emotions swaying through him – Kurt's amusement and curiosity and concern mingling with his own overwhelming new influx of sights and sounds and _smells._

He has to put his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands for a moment just to remember how to breathe, very aware that he's making a scene in Kurt's apartment and unsure what to do about it. Part of him wants to risk venturing out into the storm again, if only because he _knows _what to do on his own, but he doesn't know how to handle nice strangers that take him into their home, let alone _Kurt – _

He's vaguely aware that he's shaking and can't stop, but Kurt doesn't speak. After a long moment, a tissue drifts gently over his back and he flinches, hands coming up reflexively to curl it around his shoulders tightly. After a moment, another one joins it, and then a third, forming a protective cocoon around him.

Holding onto the soft, cottony texture, he's able to center himself again, aware of Kurt milling around in the background – pulling off his boots carefully and hooking his scarf over a peg on the wall, evidently unperturbed by Blaine's discomposure – before he pads back into the kitchen and asks, "How do you feel about fettuccine alfredo?"

Blaine's stomach rumbles loudly at the thought, and he crawls out from underneath the pile of tissues. "How can I help?" is all he says.

Kurt smiles at him, and Blaine smiles back, aware that there isn't much he _can _do but determined to try.

For Kurt, he realizes, there isn't much he _wouldn't _try to do.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer**: I do not own Glee or any of its characters; Ryan Murphy and Co. hold that honor. I'm simply writing this for fun, not profit.

As it turns out, Kurt makes the best fettuccine alfredo that Blaine has ever had.

His competition isn't fierce – living off bits of crackers and cheese tends to humble one's palate considerably – but Blaine still appreciates the added spices and the care that he takes to make it. Stomach growling, it's only through sheer force of will that he keeps from sneaking pieces of uncooked noodle away to nibble on while he cooks. Kurt's a confident chef, comfortable in the tiny kitchen as he serves up a small plate for Blaine to pick over before sitting down with his own meal and watching him.

It takes Blaine a few tries to figure out how to use a toothpick as an effective spear for the tiny noodles that Kurt cuts up for him, but once he does, he can't stop himself from devouring everything on the plate.

Twenty minutes later, he's lying belly-up on Kurt's kitchen table wondering how it's possible to be so full and so happy at the same time. Then he realizes that the two states aren't mutually exclusive and he hums as Kurt clears the dishes, content to let the silence stretch between them. He almost dozes off to the sound of Kurt fiddling around in the cabinets, listening to Kurt turn on the sink faucet and fill a large coffee mug with water.

There's a _clink _nearby as Kurt sets the mug aside. Blaine doesn't move at first, only blinking sleepily when Kurt taps his belly once with his fingertip. Shuffling on clumsy legs to his feet, he blinks at the bowl beside him and then up at Kurt, inquiring. "I know that I always feel better after a hot bath and I thought that maybe you might want one, too," Kurt explains, ears turning pink as soon as the words are out of his mouth as he hastens to amend, "not that you have to take one. I don't want to make you uncomfortable. Is it too much?"

"Kurt," Blaine says, and he's tired and he's trying so hard not to laugh because – "it's _sweet._"

Kurt's smile is equal parts relieved and pleased. "I'll, um. Let you get comfortable," he says. He's out of the room before Blaine can ask what he means, glancing between himself and the bowl with a belated spark of realization.

Oh. Right. Clothes. He should probably take those off if he wants to actually _enjoy _the bath.

Setting his shirt and pants gingerly aside, he leaves his boxers on for the sake of modesty as he climbs over the rim of the bowl carefully, letting out a squeak as he slips into the water.

And suddenly it really doesn't matter that he's in a stranger's apartment – _Kurt's _apartment – trying to navigate the fine line between imposing and scurrying away; all that matters is warmth, warmth _everywhere._ He can feel the grime sloughing off of him as he sits at the center of the bowl and rubs both hands through his hair, re-emerging after a long moment and resting his arms against the rim of the bowl.

Wriggling his toes in delight, he closes his eyes and listens to the sound of Kurt picking up what sounds like clothes in the other room for a time before he returns, his footsteps almost overshadowed by his humming. Blaine can't pick out the song immediately, but it cuts off after a moment and he opens his eyes, meeting Kurt's gaze and offering a tentative smile in return.

"Hi," he chirps, ears reddening at the almost squeaky pitch of his voice. If Kurt isn't already growing weary of him, then he will be as soon as he realizes how horrible Blaine is at keeping his composure around him; Blaine narrowly resists the urge to sink beneath the water to hide before Kurt smiles. He smiles back and the awkwardness is gone, replaced with satisfaction.

He knows that Kurt will tire of him eventually, but it doesn't seem to matter as Kurt sets a pot of warm milk on the stove to boil. Once he recognizes the song that Kurt was humming, they slip into a long, comfortable conversation about Broadway and musical theater and the joys of performing. Blaine wouldn't have minded talking for several more hours about the topic, but eventually the water runs cold and he realizes that he's shivering. Almost as soon as he does, Kurt sets his mug of warm milk aside and retreats back around the corner with a simple, "I'll be right back."

He's back before Blaine can ask him what he needs, setting a light green towel on the island and retrieving his mug. One eyebrow arches expectantly and Blaine blushes, suddenly shy. A paper towel would have been just as effective, he knows, if more abrasive against his skin; even a napkin would have sufficed. The fact that Kurt wants him to use one of his own towelsis amazing. _Kurt _is amazing.

And, wow, being surrounded by smooth, cottony warmth? _Amazing._

He starfishes on top of the towel, fanning out his limbs in shameless pleasure to bask in the softness on all sides. He hears Kurt set his mug down in the sink after a moment and then there's a, "Here, let me."

Blaine blinks up at him, curious, before Kurt makes a shooing motion with a hand and reluctantly he climbs down from his perch. He looks over his shoulder as Kurt picks up the towel and then – then he's being rubbed down, standing very, very still in the center of the towel. A slow smile curls his lips as he hums to express his approval, sitting down after a moment as Kurt rubs his head.

Heaven. He's in heaven.

He's pulled out of his state of blissful unawareness when Kurt lets the towel settle around him, cocooning him in warmth. Even with its weight pressing down on him, he doesn't feel trapped. He hasn't felt so safe in a long time, aware in the deep, omnipresent fashion of empaths that Kurt is fine. Kurt is safe.

Kurt won't hurt him.

Struggling to stay above consciousness, he doesn't even notice the moment that he dozes off, curling around a fold in the towel and startling awake when Kurt tugs it away from him a countless period of time later.

"Hey, sleepyhead," he says, unfazed as Blaine tries to stand and ends up sitting back and yawning so wide his jaw almost cracks. "I thought you might be more comfortable in these." He holds out Blaine's clothes, letting Blaine take the newly-heated shirt between his hands and pressing his face against it. It smells like laundry detergent and _Kurt, _and Kurt is amazing, and Blaine is so happy he could cry as he nuzzles the warm fabric for a long, sleepy moment before mutely tugging it back over his head.

Holding onto Kurt's outstretched index finger for balance, he climbs to his feet and accepts the pants with a murmured _thank you, _pulling them on carefully and humming happily as he sidles closer and nuzzles Kurt's palm gratefully, so, so happy that he's drunk on it.

Kurt's laughter almost pulls him out of his daze, but he just shuffles closer to his hand, eyes closed, trusting him completely.

Kurt gently scoops him up and carries him off to a different room, setting him down on a cool but incredibly soft pillow a moment later. It doesn't take long before he's drifting close to sleep again, listening to Kurt shuffle around before he hears the pillow beside him compress and, oh. There's Kurt.

He knows that he should at least _thank _Kurt for letting him stay the night, but all he manages is a sleepy mumble before he dozes off again.

He can always thank him in the morning.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer**: I do not own Glee or any of its characters; Ryan Murphy and Co. hold that honor. I'm simply writing this for fun, not profit.

Kurt's apartment is amazing.

Everything smells like home, the walls and the floors and the furniture. There isn't one square inch that doesn't have _Kurt _written all over it, and Blaine is content to sprawl in the middle of the living room floor at six in the morning and just _listen _to the world slowly waking up around and underneath him. He shivers once involuntarily at the thought of being outside – the temperature plummeted to -5 degrees Fahrenheit overnight, lethal temperatures for anyone out for more than a handful of hours – before curling deeper in the lush fabric of the carpet.

Blaine has already thoroughly explored the living room, front entrance, and even peeked into a studio that must have been Kurt's workspace by the time he hears footsteps approaching, instinctively shuffling to the side so he is concealed behind one of the curtains. Belatedly realizing that he doesn't need to do that around Kurt – who radiates so many _sleep, coffee, bed _vibes that Blaine feels a yawn creeping on him in spite of himself – he inches out of the shadows and follows him into the kitchen itself.

The sense of securityhit him first. Kurt really did have an extraordinary number of different _foods _packed into one space, and after surviving weeks on the streets foraging for scraps, Blaine could appreciate the charms of a full kitchen.

He doesn't dare presume on Kurt's hospitality, though, waiting patiently for him to brew a cup of coffee and drain half of it before clearing his throat – a squeaky sound in the silence – and saying tentatively, "Kurt?"

Almost as soon as he says it, he regrets it because Kurt almost drops his cup in surprise, gaze immediately falling to the floor and pinning him there. "You – hi."

"Hi," Blaine echoes, clearing his throat again and repeating more firmly, "hi. Sorry. I didn't mean to scare you."

"You didn't," Kurt hastens to assure, flapping a hand dismissively. He towers over Blaine at his full height, long and sinuous against the counter. "Are you – here, let me – "

Blaine freezes as Kurt bends down, knees cracking as he gently loops his thumb and forefinger around Blaine's middle before picking him up and depositing him on the counter.

"Sorry, was that – I probably should have asked you before I just –"

"It's fine, it's fine," Blaine assures, sitting down to steady himself as he looks around. "I, um. I was just going to … I needed –" Struggling to come up with a proper explanation about why he stayed until morning, he feels trepidation curl in his stomach when he realizes that he doesn't have any excuse, that he has all his things (humble as they are, the clothes on his back and nothing else) and nothing barring him from leaving.

Kurt probably expects him to leave, too. After all, he doesn't have any obligation to take on boarders, even small ones. "I was just leaving," Blaine finishes lamely.

"Of course," Kurt says, almost reflexively, and the agreement feels like a slap in the face before Kurt frowns and says, "Wait, do you – you can't be serious. It's freezing out there."

_I have somewhere to stay, _Blaine thinks, wringing his hands anxiously when the lies won't come, frozen to place, heart in his throat. _It's okay. I can find a nice warm glove to curl up in until the temperatures warm again. It's just six months. I'll be fine._

_It's just six months._

New York winters were notoriously long and cold, and Blaine knows that he won't stand a chance against them out on the streets, but he can't tell Kurt that.

So he sits, dumbfounded, on Kurt's kitchen counter, staring up at him with his mussed-hair and gorgeous green-blue eyes and can't speak at all.

"You can stay, you know," Kurt says at last, reaching for a tissue and draping it over Blaine's back again, just like he had the previous night. The soft, cottony weight is oddly comforting around Blaine's shoulders, smooth and unresisting to his fingers as he curls them in it. "I have to go pick up some new fabrics for a project, but I don't mind – I'd _prefer _it if you'd stay here. Okay?"

Blaine just blinks up at him, too grateful for words as he nods, swallowing. "Okay," he agrees, looking up at him and offering a smile.

Kurt gives a second smile in return and a handful of grapes to help him pass the time as Kurt finishes getting ready. Blaine is halfway through his third grape when Kurt puts on a coat and trills, "Be back in an hour!" before shutting the door behind him, leaving Blaine alone in the apartment.

Unable to help himself, he noses around the cabinets until he found crackers, nibbling on one as he continues his perusal of the kitchen. He doesn't dare open the fridge, knowing that even if he did somehow wedge it open, he wouldn't be able to get it shut again (or, God forbid, if he got stuck _inside _of it).

He manages to wedge one of the cabinet drawers open so he can stand on it, positioning himself to hop onto the handle below. Taking a breath, he lets go, gratefully latching onto the next rung of his makeshift ladder a second later.

The front door opens and he stills, wondering why Kurt is back so early when a different voice calls out, "Kurt? Kurt, I know you're here, I need your help."

Holding his breath and willing himself not to fall, Blaine inches downward, so, so careful until, "Oh my _God._"

He slips, thankfully hitting the rug on the floor instead of the tile, scrambling to his feet and scurrying underneath the cabinets when he hears the footsteps approaching. _Please don't step on me, please don't step on me, please don't step on me, _he pleads silently, pressing his back against the wall and letting out his breath hard. He doesn't know who would break into Kurt's apartment – it has to be one of his friends – but he hasn't exactly known _Kurt _very long.

When he hears a vacuum start up, he scrambles out from under his cover, holding up his hands in a universal _I surrender _gesture.

Which is how he ends up in an upside-down vase, starting up at his captor imploringly as she talks energetically with _someone _on the phone (he hopes that it's Kurt and not pest control). Back pressed to the wall, he watches her pace as she pointedly ignores him, only glancing over occasionally to make sure that he hasn't tried to escape (he hasn't, but the thought is better than the twisting fear forming in his belly).

At last, she hangs up. He shies away from the side of the bowl when she peers down into it, not wanting to be the subject of anyone's scrutiny, let alone someone that was moments ago willing to _vacuum _him out of hiding.

Still, try though he might, there isn't anywhere to hide inside the glass vase. At least it's clear, he reflects; he doesn't want to imagine the agony of being blind and deaf to the stranger's plans.

He looks up when she puts a cookbook on top of the vase and leaves the room, already on the phone again. Curling his knees up to his chest, he rests his head on top of them and waits until he hears the muffled sounds of more lively chatter and then – _Kurt._

"You _cannot _just break in like this," he says, lifting cookbook and vase off Blaine and scowling at the newcomer. "Please tell me you didn't try to maim him first," Kurt adds, pinching the bridge of his nose as Blaine wobbles to his feet, a little uncertain if he dares to make himself known in the present company.

"Of course I didn't," the stranger says, scandalized at the accusation. "Kurt, what on Earth are you doing with – it?"

"He needed a place to stay," Kurt says, voice growing a little more heated as he adds, "and it's not your job to decide who can and can't stay with me."

The stranger doesn't relent, pointing out all the things that Blaine could have done to harm Kurt while he was gone (including stuck needles in his pillow which, _wow, _Blaine had never even considered but made him nauseous to think about). He scoots away from them to the edge of the table, hoping to give them some privacy (and, he thinks, to escape before Kurt does decide that he's a household hazard).

Except the table slopes unexpectedly and he slips, limbs flailing almost comically for a moment before he tumbles backwards and smacks into the floor, a thin noise escaping him as all the breath gets punched out of him.

Kurt doesn't notice immediately – Blaine can't blame them, they're practically shouting at each other – but Blaine can't move just yet when he finally _does _notice, ducking under the table and asking, "Blaine?"

Shakily, Blaine tries to get to his feet, left leg folding under him as he does so. His ears are ringing a little too loudly for him to make out anything other than Kurt's voice, but he must be making some sort of noise because Kurt is there, then, crouched under the table with his wide, worried eyes. "Blaine?"

Blaine scoots back against the center of the table, curling in on himself a little in a _please leave me alone _gesture.

The ringing is fading enough for the pain to seep in, and with a growing sense of dismay he tries to move his left leg, to kneel up and stand, only to abort the gesture almost before it begins. He can't bear weight on it – not yet, not this second but he _will _be able to, just once the ringing's stopped and the initial shock has faded – but that doesn't mean the end of the world. He's inside where it's heated and Kurt hasn't brought out the vacuum (yet). He's already eaten, so he won't have to for at least a day, if he needs to stretch meals.

He'll be fine.

Except Kurt reaches out for him and he shies away, whining as the movement jostles his leg. He doesn't want to be picked up. He doesn't want to _move._

Kurt is persistent and Blaine frankly helpless to stop him, only able to press his back a little more tightly against the center of the table until he slumps as Kurt's hand reaches around him, scooping him into his palm.

He bites his lip to keep from crying out, hunching over his legs defensively. It isn't until Kurt sets him down on his mattress that he lets out his breath, gasping a little as he inhales and exhales.

"Kurt, I –" The stranger is there in the doorway, anxiety written in every line of her features.

"I think you need to go, Rachel," Kurt says, quiet but firm, and the stranger, with a last glance at them, departs.

"I'm sorry," Blaine says, needing to speak into the silence, sitting even though it's painful, his back is beginning to ache, too.

"Don't be," Kurt chides. "What do you need?" he adds.

Blaine doesn't want to tell him the truth – _I don't know._ But there isn't an appropriate lie that will help. His leg is twisted or sprained, or close to it, and no amount of grapes or tissues can fix that.

_A hug, _he thinks, and laughs, because it's ridiculous and he can't expect anything from Kurt.

"A little time?" he hedges, knowing that it's not a good answer but it's the best one he has.

"I can go pick up that last line of fabric and see how you're doing later?" Kurt offers.

"You don't have to do that," Blaine rushes to assure, trying to stand up automatically and sitting back, instead, very small against Kurt's bed.

Kurt eyes him, evidently not at all convinced by his _I'm fine _façade, even though Blaine can look it surprisingly well. "I want to," he says at last, apparently refusing to press the point but not wanting to intrude on Blaine's choices, either. "I'll be back soon," he promises. "I'll lock the door behind me, too. Not that you can't leave, but I don't want any other unexpected visitors today. Okay?"

Blaine nods, waiting until he leaves before curling onto his side a little, hugging the part of the pillow he can reach to his chest as pain lances down his leg.

It'll be a long week, but it's nothing he can't handle.

Nothing he can't handle, he thinks again, letting it become a mantra to carry him through the long, aching minutes alone. Nothing he can't handle.


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer**: I do not own Glee or any of its characters; Ryan Murphy and Co. hold that honor. I'm simply writing this for fun, not profit.

Blaine has two general approaches to coping with injuries, but he can't remember either of them.

It doesn't occur to him that the first is _stay out of sight _until he feels a warm pressure against his back, scrunching his brow and hugging the pillow in front of him closer reflexively. He relaxes once the pressure is gone, a quick brush of a hand that is already lost to the sense-memory of his sore skin as he wills himself to remain still and silent and unseen. Maybe Kurt will leave him alone if he's unobtrusive enough, vanishing into the comforter, the shadows, the corners of the world.

That's where he belongs, after all: out of sight, out of mind.

Instead he's on top of Kurt's neatly made, well-pressed bed, and he can't bring himself to move. He doesn't want to move. He's comfortable enough to last a few more hours without needing to eat or drink or do anything but process the aching soreness settling into his limbs.

Even though it's only been an hour, it seems like days have passed between the moment when everything had felt a little too sharp, hostile and loud and overwhelmingly vibrant, and the next when it was all muted behind a curtain of pain. It's the same curtain that makes him shuffle sluggishly away from Kurt's hand when he nudges Blaine's back again, light but persistent. "Blaine?" he asks, and it's his voice that Blaine can't ignore, try though he might.

He blinks and lets out a soft _huhn _in response_._ It's less of a grunt than a groan as he shifts onto his back, blinking blearily up at Kurt and shying away when he reaches out again.

Thankfully, Kurt retracts his hand – looking as bewildered as Blaine feels, if he's being honest with himself – before he draws in a deep breath and asks simply, "Are you okay?"

Blaine tries to sit up – why, he doesn't know, except that's the second rule: _if caught, act natural_– before he ends up curled onto his side again as the twisting, nauseating pain resurfaces. He flinches at the first brush of Kurt's thumb against his back, relaxing as it makes slow sweeps across his spine, Kurt's steadiness seeping into his own wayward thoughts and calming them.

"How can I help?" he asks, and the phrasing of the question throws Blaine off again because Kurt can do _anything _but he doesn't, not without Blaine's direction and approval.

But Blaine is tongue-tied and hopelessly incapable of imposing on strangers, even strangers as lovely as _Kurt_, so all he manages is a noise somewhere between a whine and an _I don't know._

Luckily, Kurt doesn't seem to need a specific answer, shuffling away from the bed and returning a minute later with – a tiny, makeshift cold compress.

"I thought it might – help," he explains, making a gesture with one hand at Blaine's leg. He glances uncertainly between Kurt and the compress, a single ice cube wrapped carefully in a plastic bag, before nodding his approval.

He regrets it almost immediately because it's so _cold, _his leg aching and his teeth chattering as Kurt pulls it away with a hasty, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, are you okay? I'm sorry."

Blaine doesn't respond, curling in on himself even more tightly as he shakes, hungry for warmth and frozen with pain but then there is warmth as Kurt pullsone of his own sheets over Blaine's shoulders. The teeth-chattering subsides almost immediately, but the trembling persists, a combination of fear and adrenaline washing over him at the unexpected cold and searing pain. It takes a while for the shock to work its way through him, leaving him curled up in an even tighter ball than before once it passes.

His leg still hurts, and it's the first thing that he's really aware of as he stares at the mattress in front of him, even with Kurt idling in the background, humming along to a song Blaine doesn't recognize. He tries to ignore the stiff, unyielding way his left leg it drags after his right as he unfolds himself from his ball, peeking his head above the sheet gradually to watch Kurt move across the doorway, flitting between the kitchen and the living room.

The illusion of privacy is oddly comforting even if it is just that – an illusion, nothing more than a courtesy on Kurt's part. Carefully levering himself upright, Blaine winces when he shifts his legs. His left leg _moves_, and that's a small mercy: he doesn't know what he would do if it didn't work at all. Struggling to his feet is hard because his left leg doesn't _want _to support his weight, even though he pushes himself to use it. Letting out his breath in a harsh gasp as he rests some of his weight on it, he walks – limps, hobbles, struggles – three steps forward before it folds underneath him.

It's progress – humble progress, but progress, regardless – and he lets that thought comfort him even as the pain shifts to near deafening proportions, ears ringing as he runs a hand slowly up and down his own thighs, trying to soothe.

He flinches when another ice pack appears in his line of sight, wrapped in a simple white cloth. He doesn't move when Kurt adjusts it so that it's resting against his legs, a slow sigh escaping him as it eases some of the burn. Tucking his cheek against the mattress, he doesn't move at all as he waits for the pain to subside, letting out a tiny noise of discontent when Kurt reaches for the cold compress, misinterpreting his stillness for discomfort. Kurt retreats and he's alone again, eyes closed as he listens to the aches of his own healing body.

He doesn't know how much time passes, then. He doesn't sleep, but he drifts, only partially aware of his surroundings, of the mill of a thousand invisible footsteps and the chatter of hundreds of strangers, the wash of a car driving over a puddle and a storm rumbling on the horizon. It's the first clap of thunder that pulls him completely from his reverie, dizzying him as he stares at the pillowcase in front of him, his legs a little numb but almost pleasantly painless as he shifts them underneath the weight of the compress.

His attempts to sit up are even less productive than before. Even so, he caves more easily as he listens to the wind lashing the outside of the apartment. Wherever and whatever this is, it's better than any of the alternatives: he sinks back down without a sound and doesn't notice Kurt tap-tap-tapping away on his laptop on the other side of the room, fingers flying over the keys but mind alert, head tilted just so to listen for any signs of distress.

It isn't until his stomach growls that he pushes aside the temptation of sleep and struggles to a seated position instead, wondering what the best approach would be to get from his current cushiony heaven to the nearest source of food.

There's a deli just down the street, he thinks, yawning and covering it with a hand as he shuffles forward, hissing as his legs slide out from underneath the compress. If he can get to it before the night shift starts, then he might have a chance of getting a decent meal out of it.

Just as he's working up the logistical maneuvering required to slide off his current perch, a grape appears in front of him. He blinks, dazed, and looks up at the literal hand feeding him, leaning back a little more to see the rest of Kurt. "Hungry?" he asks, plucking the grape off the mattress and putting it closer to Blaine when it threatens to roll off the side of the bed.

Blaine reaches wordlessly for it – even though he's hungry for hot food, something to ease the tension radiating from his core outward – before balancing it between both hands as he takes a bite.

He devours the first grape slowly but refuses the second, knowing that he won't be able to finish it and not wanting to inconvenience Kurt by leaving a half-finished grape on his mattress. As it stands, he can't dispose of the remains himself, hyperaware of his own helplessness as he tries to sit up without making it obvious that he can't stand.

Tired and hunched, he doesn't flinch when he feels Kurt's thumb rub along his back, leaning against the touch and letting out a soft sigh. He doesn't know why Kurt's still being nice to him, but he doesn't have the energy or will power to question it.

"Would a bath help?" Kurt asks.

Blaine shuffles a little closer to his hand in response, nodding.

Kurt must have anticipated his cooperation because he doesn't leave him to get ready; he curls his hand carefully around Blaine and picks him up. Biting his lip to keep from making any noise at the movement, Blaine presses his cheek against Kurt's shirt to calm the vertigo that washes over him as Kurt walks.

Thankfully, what took Blaine the better part of five minutes to reach earlier that morning only takes Kurt a few seconds before he deposits Blaine on the counter top next to a bowl. Blaine peels off his shirt obligingly, wrestling with his pants for a few moments longer before setting those aside, too, and feels nausea sweep over him at the sight of the bruises, black and ugly.

He doesn't give Kurt a chance to react to them, just pushes himself to his feet – and the pain seems worse as his muscles bunch and tense, expecting and denying his ability to move properly – and climbs into the bowl.

Every muscle goes limp with relaxation as he submerges himself in the warm water, dipping below the surface for a moment before bopping back up. "How's the water?" Kurt asks, unnecessarily, but it's nice to nod and mean it, an empathetic _yes _instead of an obligatory one.

He misses his autonomy, his ability to fish through the cabinets of his own home and find what he needed to dull that pain, but he's grateful for Kurt and his warm, insulated apartment. He floats in the water for as long as he can, soaking in every last trace of warmth before at last shivering once in concession, struggling to stand and gratefully latching onto Kurt's finger for support when he offers it.

And if nothing else, Kurt's towels are truly _divine._ Blaine wants to purr with satisfaction as he's enveloped in warm cotton, soft against his skin and almost soothing against his legs and back. Kurt hands him his clothes and Blaine reluctantly crawls back into them. On the streets, it's easy to forget that they're the same, day in and day out. In Kurt's pristine apartment, it's harder to suppress the craving for _more, _aware of his own deficiencies more than ever.

Still, he doesn't complain, and he only blinks up at Kurt owlishly as he says, not for the first time, "Blaine?"

"Hm," he grunts, leaning back against the towel, still warm, and closing his eyes. He's tired, wrung out from the stress, and he doesn't know what Kurt needs. His stomach twists at the thought that he's kicking him out, one final favor before sending him out to the streets. At least he's in the apartment complex; he might be able to hide out for a few days without being noticed before he has to flee.

Bracing himself for the news, he blinks sluggishly when he feels a tiny cup press against his arm. There's a red liquid that he should but doesn't recognize at the bottom of it. It's not even a third of a milliliter, and the intent is obvious, but Blaine still hesitates before taking it.

But he trusts Kurt and he trusts his instincts, and both radiate waves of calm – a touch of anxiety, perhaps, but nothing alarming, nothing sinister.

Carefully balancing the measuring cup in his hands, he downs the medicine in one go.

To his relief, nothing happens. Kurt picks him up again and he's almost too out of it to even notice, just clinging to his shirt for balance and not letting go once Kurt removes his hand, clinging to the fabric as his feet dangle just above the bed. It isn't until Kurt gently pries him off that he loses the battle, latching onto his pillow instead as curling up tightly around it.

When Kurt tugs the blanket back over him, he doesn't notice, already sinking deeper into the throes of a deeper, painless sleep.


End file.
